memory as he had seen her for those few

enchanted hours of a June afternoon. The

clash of opposing nationalities, of different

standards, the pain of disillusionment, all

that was ruled out for ever.

Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly.

His mind went back to his conversation

with the Valetta family. The mother, with

her broad peasant face, the upright griefstricken

father, the dark hard-lipped sister.

"It was sudden. Signer, it was very

sudden. Though for many years she had

had pains on and off. . . . The doctor gave

us no choice--he said there must be an

operation immediately for the appendicitis.

He took her off to the hospital then and

there.... Si, siy it was under the anaesthetic

she died. She never recovered consciousness."

The mother sniffed, murmuring:

"Bianca was always such a clever girl.

It is terrible that she should have died

so young. ..."

125

Hercule Poirot repeated to himself:

"She died young...."

That was the message he must take back

to the young man who had asked his help

so confidingly.

^She is not for you, my friend. She died

young.59

His quest had ended --here where the

leaning Tower was silhouetted against the

sky and the first spring flowers were

showing pale and creamy with their

promise of life and joy to come.

Was it the stirring of spring that made

him feel so rebelliously disinclined to

accept this final verdict ? Or was it something

else ? Something stirring at the back

of his brain --words --a phrase --a

name? Did not the whole thing finish

too neatly --dovetail too obviously ?

Hercule Poirot sighed. He must take

one more journey to put things beyond

any possible doubt. He must go to Vagray

les Alpes.

VIII

Here, he thought, really was the world's

end. This shelf of snow --these scattered

huts and shelters in each of which lay

126

a motionless human being fighting an

insidious death.

So he came at last to Katrina Samoushenka.

When he saw her, lying there with

hollow cheeks in each of which was a vivid

red stain, and long thin emaciated hands

stretched out on the coverlet, a memory

stirred in him. He had not remembered her

name, but he had seen her dance--had

been carried away and fascinated by the

supreme art that can make you forget

art.

He remembered Michael Novgin, the

Hunter, leaping and twirling in that outrageous

and fantastic forest that the brain of

Ambrose Vandel had conceived. And he remembered

the lovely flying Hind, eternally

pursued, eternally desirable--a golden

beautiful creature with horns on her head

and twinkling bronze feet. He remembered

her final collapse, shot and wounded, and

Michael Novgin standing bewildered, with

the body of the slain Deer in his arms.

Katrina Samoushenka was looking at

him with faint curiosity. She said:

cc! have never seen you before, have I ?

What is it you want of me ?"

Hercule Poirot made her a little bow.

127

"First, Madame, I wish to thank you - for your art which made for me once an evening of beauty."